A stranger kept stealing my parking spot, leaving nothing but his phone number on my windshield. Whenever I called, he never explained—just moved the car and vanished into the night. Something about it felt unsettling. But the day I learned who he was, my world shattered in two.
The fluorescent lights in the office had been gnawing at my eyes for nearly eleven hours when I finally powered down my computer and shuffled out to the parking lot that Tuesday evening. My neck felt like it had been locked in a vice all day, and the dull throb in my temples warned me that a migraine was waiting just around the corner. All I wanted was to drive home, collapse on my couch, and breathe in the smell of whatever dinner my wife, Sophie, had made.
She usually had something warm waiting—she liked to fuss over me after long workdays. If I was lucky, maybe she’d made her creamy baked lasagna, the one with three kinds of cheese that could coax me back to life no matter how bad my day had been.
But that night, when I pulled into the lot at our apartment complex, my small bubble of relief popped instantly.
Someone was in my parking spot.
Now, to anyone else, it might not have seemed like a big deal. Our building had plenty of guest parking spots a little farther down the lot. But space #14 was mine. I’d argued with the landlord for weeks to get it—the one right in front of our staircase, under the lamp that gave me peace of mind when I came home late. It wasn’t just convenience. It was something I had fought for, something I considered part of the rent I paid every month.
And now, sitting smugly in that space, was a black Toyota Camry.
“Unbelievable,” I muttered, my grip tightening on the steering wheel. I circled once, then parked two rows down, muttering curses under my breath as I got out. My keys dug into my palm with the force of my irritation. I was ready to storm up to the car and leave a note of my own—one far less polite than anything I could imagine.
But before I could, I noticed something white fluttering under the windshield wiper.
A note.
I tugged it free and unfolded the paper. The handwriting was precise, almost elegant:
Sorry for the spot. Be back soon. Call me if I’m in your way: 555-**.
I stared at it, half-baffled and half-enraged. Who does this? Who takes someone’s assigned space and leaves behind their phone number like some kind of calling card?
Impulse overrode common sense. I pulled out my phone and dialed.
One ring. Two rings. Then a calm voice answered.
“Hello?”
“Yeah,” I snapped, “you’re parked in my spot. Number fourteen.”
“Ah,” the man said. His voice was low, steady, almost too composed. “My apologies. I’ll move it right away.”
No excuses. No irritation. Just that.
Two minutes later, I watched as a man emerged from my building. He wore a gray hoodie zipped up to his chin, a baseball cap pulled low, and—strangely—dark sunglasses even though dusk had already swallowed the light. Without looking in my direction, he slid into the Camry and pulled away.
I stood there, dumbfounded, holding the note.
“Well… that was weird,” I muttered to myself.
That night over dinner, I told Sophie the whole story.
“You’re not going to believe what happened,” I said, twirling spaghetti onto my fork.
She leaned forward, her green eyes glinting with curiosity. “Try me.”
“Some guy took my parking spot. Left a note with his phone number. When I called, he just… moved. No questions, nothing. Who even does that?”
Sophie smiled faintly. “Honestly, that’s kind of thoughtful. At least he gave you a way to contact him instead of just leaving you stuck.”
“Thoughtful?” I scoffed. “He stole my space.”
“Still. Most people wouldn’t have bothered to apologize. Maybe he was in a hurry, or maybe he just parked without thinking.”
“Maybe,” I grumbled, though unease gnawed at me. Something about the whole thing didn’t sit right.
But it didn’t happen just once.
Over the next three weeks, it happened again. And again. Same car. Same note. Same polite response every time I called.
It started to feel deliberate.
Sometimes it was twice a week. Sometimes three. Always after I’d had a particularly brutal day at work, when my patience was thin and my only desire was to go home and rest. I would pull into the lot, see that black Camry in my space, and feel the frustration boil in my chest.
And always, within minutes of my call, the man would appear. Hoodie, cap, sunglasses. Silent, quick, gone before I could even form a question.
“This is getting ridiculous,” I told Sophie one night, pacing the living room while she flipped through a magazine.
“Maybe he just doesn’t realize how much it bothers you,” she said absently.
“He knows. He has to know. He only parks there when I’m not home. And then he leaves a note—every single time. It’s like some kind of twisted game.”
She laughed softly. “Or maybe he’s just forgetful.”
“No. No, Sophie. It’s intentional. I can feel it.”
She sighed and shook her head. “You’re overthinking this, Lucas. Let it go.”
But I couldn’t.
One gray Saturday morning, Sophie told me she was heading out to brunch with her friend Rachel.
“Don’t wait up,” she said, slipping on her heels. “We might do some shopping afterward.”
I kissed her cheek. “Have fun. I’ve got that client meeting in Brookfield, so I’ll be gone most of the day too.”
But twenty minutes later, my boss called to say the meeting had been postponed. “Enjoy your free weekend, Lucas!” he said cheerfully.
So I decided to make the best of it. I drove to the grocery store to pick up a few things.
That’s when I saw it.
The black Camry.
It was parked crookedly near the entrance, like it owned the place.
My heart slammed against my ribs. I pulled closer, squinting at the license plate. It was the same car. The same one that had stolen my space over and over again.
“What are the odds?” I muttered. “Is he following me?”
I circled the lot, pretending to look for a spot, but really I was watching the entrance. Minutes crawled by until finally, he appeared.
The man in the hoodie. Only this time, his sunglasses were off. I saw his face for the first time—sharp jawline, dark stubble, eyes that seemed too familiar for comfort.
And he wasn’t alone.
Sophie was with him.
She was laughing at something he said, her face brighter than I’d seen it in months. Her hair fell loose over her shoulders, and she walked close to him—too close.
And they were holding hands.
The world seemed to tilt.
“No. No, no, no,” I whispered, frozen behind my steering wheel.
They walked casually to the Camry, as though this was the most natural thing in the world. He opened the passenger door for her, and she slid inside without hesitation.
I followed. I don’t know why—maybe I needed to prove to myself that I hadn’t imagined it. That there was some explanation other than the obvious.
But they drove straight to my apartment complex. Straight to my parking space.
I parked down the street and watched, trembling, as they got out. He pulled another note from his hoodie pocket and tucked it under the wiper, same as always. Then they walked inside together, fingers entwined like they belonged to each other.
And suddenly, it all clicked.
The notes weren’t for me. They were for Sophie. A system. A warning.
When I called, it was his signal to leave. By the time I got upstairs, Sophie would be waiting, innocent as ever, dinner on the stove or a smile ready at the door.
I had been the unwitting alarm clock for my wife’s affair.
My legs felt heavy as I climbed the stairs. Our door was unlocked.
I checked the bedroom—empty. The bathroom—empty. Then I heard it. Voices, drifting from the balcony.
I stepped outside, and there they were. My wife and the man, wrapped in an embrace that made my stomach turn.
They froze when they saw me. Sophie’s face drained of color.
“L-Lucas,” she stammered.
I stared at them both, my heart breaking and hardening at the same time. “How long?”
Tears welled in her eyes. “Three months. I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.”
“Three months,” I repeated, my voice hollow. “And the notes? That was your idea, wasn’t it?”
She nodded, covering her face with trembling hands.
“Clever,” I said bitterly, before turning back into the apartment.
“Lucas, wait!” she cried. But I didn’t.
I packed a bag and drove to a cheap motel on the edge of town. The sheets smelled like bleach and the walls were stained with years of neglect, but at least there was silence. At least there was no black Camry in my spot.
The next morning, I sent her a message: Don’t call. Don’t text. I’m filing for divorce.
And then I turned off my phone.
It took me three weeks to find a new place—a small studio across town. No assigned parking. No notes. Just space for my car and room for me to breathe.
Sophie tried to reach out a few times, but I never picked up. I didn’t need explanations. I didn’t need apologies. Some words are just noise.
Now, when I pull into my building’s lot, I park wherever I want. No one’s waiting. No one’s keeping secrets. The silence is heavy sometimes, but it’s honest.
And after everything, honesty feels like a luxury.
Freedom doesn’t always feel like victory. Sometimes it just feels like breathing again after holding your breath for far too long.
And for the first time in months, that was enough.
